Why me? Why not somebody else?
by JulsLovesBlue
Summary: I'm sure lots of people would like to related to Sherlock Holmes. Not me. My mum had just died, and now I had to go live with my dad, who has been absent in my life for the past sixteen years. So basically, my whole life. I just hoped he didn't drive me crazy before I could get out when I turned eight-teen.


I felt tears fall down my cheeks as I looked at the grave. My mum just died a week ago. Cancer. It would have hurt less if she died in a car accident, since I couldn't have known. But instead, I had known she was going to die ever since the doctor told her. Blood cancer. Didn't even know it existed until my mum was dying from it. They couldn't treat her, since her blood was moving constantly. I found out who my dad was, my mum said he'd get custody of me. I gave a dry chuckle. I'd always wanted to know who he was, but now I would trade the knowledge for even a minute with my mum. Sherlock Holmes. I hated him already. He never bothered to find out if he knocked up my mum and now I had to uproot what was left of my life to go live with him. I hate life.

I scowled down at my drawing pad, at the picture that I drew. It was of a girl, in a black dress and crying tears of blood, reaching out to a shadow in the mist. Depressing. Just f*cking depressing. I sighed and looked out the window of the train. The rough hills and forests I loved were gone, replaced by neat fields and sheep. I could see London in the distance, though it was coming closer with each second. I sighed again, deeper this time and looked at the employe from Child Service that was accompanying me from my hometown to London, to drop me off at my dad's. Like I couldn't do it on my own. It wasn't that difficult. Just buy the ticket and get on the train. Wait until you reach your destination, then grab a cab to the place that you are going to spend the night at. Or in my case, most likely until college, when I would move out and get a place for myself. And hopefully, not come back. Lovely. As I said before, I hate life.

I looked at the door of apartment 221B and suddenly turned to the employe. "Does he even know I exist?", I asked. She looked up from her phone at me and frowned. "Of course he knows you exist. We wouldn't just dump you here if he didn't even know who you are." _That's reassuring, _I thought. So you are just going to dump me here, not even going to look and see if he's a suitable parent? You people seem to like making up some bullshit excuse about a parent not being suitable when he or she is gay, but nooo, my dad would be perfect just because he fathered me, which means he's not gay. I hate bigots. Makes me want to rip their beliefs to shreds and watch as they try and pick up the pieces.

I don't have anymore time to think, since whats-her-name knocked on the door and a small man with blond hair opens the door. I frown. This is not my dad. My mum told me he was tall and had brown curly hair. This man was barley an inch taller than me. So who was he? Oh, now I remember, me dad has a flatmate. Great. It's bad enough that I have to live with a complete stranger, now there's two of them. And they're both male and as far as I could tell, single. I just hoped neither of them was a player, because I don't feel like seeing a constant string of women go through the house.

While I was thinking, the flatmate, who I had distantly heard introduce himself as John, had invited us in. As I was brought back to the present, I looked around the place I was going to be living in for a few years. There was one word that popped into my head a second later. Depressing. A cow skull wearing headphones was hanging on the wall between two windows, under which a table stood, covered with papers. To the right, there was a yellow smiley face painted on the wall, with a ugly sofa set under it. On the left wall, there was a fireplace with a real human skull on it. Two armchairs were in front of it. A small coffee table was standing between them. From what I could see of the kitchen, it was covered in dust and the table was full of chemistry equipment. I hate chemistry. Gives me a headache. As I was looking around, John was making tea and had just asked the employe how she liked it. "Strong with milk, please." As he looked at me, I replied before he could ask. "Not too strong or weak, please. Two spoons of sugar." "Sweet tooth?" He asked. "No, I'm simply trying to make you run out of sugar so you have to wast money buying new sugar."


End file.
